


STAY

by Last_Chance_Anna



Series: STAY [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bisexual Tony Stark, F/M, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, M/M, Oblivious Tony Stark, Pining Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, almost-date, clandestine hand-holding, tony just wants some damn fried chicken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-29 16:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21413134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Last_Chance_Anna/pseuds/Last_Chance_Anna
Summary: Steve Rogers is completely in love.  Natasha Romanov is amazing.  Tony Stark is a snarky, loveable dork.  Is this how Steve and Tony start to get together?  In my head, it is.
Relationships: Bruce Banner & Clint Barton & Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark & Thor, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: STAY [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1543645
Comments: 26
Kudos: 159





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, just so you know, this is my first ever post, my first ever foray into fanfic, but I had this idea for a little one-chapter thing that ended up ballooning into THIS thing...and there may be five other stories already written. This is technically Post-Age of Ultron, but I have changed a few things to fit the story. I'm not going to go into a ton of "what"s and "why"s. Judging from the stories I have read on here already, you are all a bunch of smart cookies who don't need me to point them out. And if I do, I run the risk of exposing the fact that I have a short memory (I'm old) and may have forgotten some things. Let's just assume any change is intentional on my part. I wasn't going to post this at all. I just wrote it for myself, but maybe if I post it, it will get it out of my never-satisfied hands and I will quit tinkering with it. Thank you in advance for reading, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
P.S. Do I need to tell you I don't own Marvel? I don't...I just play with their toys.

Lavish. It was the only word that fit. Waiters in hot rod red shirts walked here and there balancing huge trays of champagne and delicate canapes. Chandeliers dripped crystals, women dripped jewels. Music from a string quartet played continuously, people chatted, laughed, groups of beautiful men and women forming and re-forming in the swirl of a sequined skirt, the flash of a diamond cufflink.

  
Steve stood off to the side, not at the bar, but close enough. He always felt uncomfortable at these things. The lights were always a little too bright, the talk a little too loud. Funny that he, who had been an almost-literal showgirl in his other life, should feel out of place amongst such glitz and glamor, but he did.

  
Tony, on the other hand, fit right in. Steve watched as he made his way from person to person, a word here, a joke there. In his tailored tuxedo and impeccably-knotted tie, it was easy to see that Tony Stark had been made for this. Where Steve was stiff and shy, Tony was fluid grace and easy banter. He had a way of drawing a person in, and when his countenance fell on someone, they lit up from the inside. Steve had seen it happen--had been lucky enough to have it happen to him. Being seen by Tony Stark, was akin to being seen by god.

  
Steve finished off his whiskey and set the glass aside. It wasn’t his first of the night--or the fifth--but he barely felt any buzz at all. Thanks to Erskine, and Howard of course, it would probably take double the amount to make him feel anything. Usually that was a blessing, but on nights like tonight he would gladly trade a little “super-soldier” just to feel a bit tipsy.

  
He walked back to the bar and tapped his glass. “Again, please,” he said.

  
The bartender gave him a wary eye. “You sure? You’ve had a few.”

  
Steve nodded with an internal sigh--why couldn’t Tony just hire the same guys every time? “I’m okay,” he said. “And I’m not driving, so, again, please?”

  
The guy looked at Steve then shrugged. _Not my problem_, that shrug said, and poured the drink.

  
Ordinarily, that shrug would have irked Steve a bit. Even if it meant explaining his peculiar metabolism to a perfect stranger, he would rather do that than think this kid was letting a gaggle of drunks loose on New York with only a shrug to light their way. But not tonight. Tonight he’d let it go with a little shrug of his own and try hard to drown his sorrows with seven or eight or ten rounds of scotch.

  
Before the serum, he had only been drunk a handful of times. Once under the boardwalk when he was fifteen. Bucky had found a bottle of rye whiskey under some leaves--some wino’s emergency stash--and the two of them had set to it with hot, guilty abandon. On his seventeenth birthday, Bucky showed up at his door with a bottle of expensive scotch. They drank like kings from plastic cups, toasting each other’s youth, and in Bucky’s case, health and vitality. Bucky toasted Steve’s utterly grand fortune in having a best friend with a silver tongue and sticky fingers who could procure such a life-affirming elixir. Steve told him to go to hell, and the two ended up wrestling on the living room floor until Steve’s mother came home and beat Bucky out of the house with the broom, then sent Steve after him to make sure he was okay.

  
Steve found the bottle again the night of his mother’s funeral. Sad and lonely, he’d drank until he passed out and only woke up when he started to vomit. He hurried to the toilet and threw everything up then dry-heaved until his asthma kicked in. Head spinning, lungs gasping for non-existent breath, he lay on the cold, chipped tiles of the bathroom floor waiting to die. When his breathing eased and the shakes subsided, he crawled into his mother’s room and up onto her bed. He rolled into a ball, clutching his still-queasy stomach, the dusty-sweet scent of her lavender sachet in his nose, and wished he _had_ died.

  
Then came the serum.

  
Then Bucky fell.

  
Peggy had been there that time to keep him from trying to drown himself. Tough Peggy. Brilliant Peggy. Beautiful Peggy. But Peggy was lost to him now. Hydra and the Red Skull had stolen her from him as surely as they’d stolen Bucky. He couldn’t blame her for moving on, for falling in love with someone else and for marrying him and building a life without Steve. He could blame her no more than he could blame the cold north wind for blowing or the Earth for spinning, marking off the hours and days and years that now separated them from each other. What they had had been nothing more than a moment, a drop of saltwater in the ocean of time, a dream only half-remembered upon waking.

  
He tried not to think about that dream when he visited her. When she was lucid, and knew all the years that stood between them, he almost succeeded. But when she quieted and her eyes clouded, it was more difficult. When she blinked and those eyes, those dark, dark eyes, filled with terrible hope and the tears began to fall, it was more than difficult--it was impossible. He stayed with her then, his large unblemished fingers reaching to swallow up her small wrinkled ones. He laid his head on the pillow next to hers and whispered, “I’m here. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere,” until she stilled again. When she was asleep, he pulled his hands from hers--gently, oh so gently--and walked out the door. He tried not to think of that dream as he walked down the street, cap pulled low on his brow, shoulders hunched inside his jacket. He tried not to think about it and thought about it the whole way home.

  
First Bucky, then Peggy, and now all these years later, here he was with a new team, new friends, and the cycle was starting again. Because after Sokovia, Bruce was gone, and no one had seen or heard from Thor since then either. Was it any wonder Steve had become so obsessive about keeping his eyes on the team?

  
Even here, at this party in Stark Tower, that had the best security systems outside of the United Nations building--and he could hear Tony in his head saying, “The U.N. _wishes_ it had my security!”--Steve still found himself looking for them, checking their whereabouts, tracking their movements throughout the room. Clint lounged in the corner, his feet up on the table. Beside him, Laura bounced a baby on her knee, her pretty face alight and dazzled by the room around her. Rhodey stood nearby with a trio of ladies in low-cut dresses, a drink in his hand. Natasha was MIA for the moment and Sam had an emergency with one of his friends at the VA so he couldn’t make it to the party. On the dancefloor, Wanda and Vision twirled in a technically perfect but somewhat uninspired waltz. Steve smiled as Wanda grabbed Vision’s shoulders and gave them a brisk shake before placing his hands on her waist. The implications were clear: loosen up, you, and just dance.

  
Steve didn’t have to look for Tony. He was everywhere and drew Steve’s eye like a moth to the flame. He was with Pepper tonight, and if the constant touching meant anything, she had come as his date and not his employee. A more casual viewer may not have noticed the difference--Tony touched everybody--but the delicate way his fingers lingered on the small of her back or brushed her hair aside so he could whisper in her ear spoke volumes to Steve.

  
Pepper wasn’t as obvious, but as Tony spoke to the knot of people surrounding them, her lips quirked into the same expression Steve had felt on his own face--half fond, half exasperated, and pulled Tony closer to her side. When he continued to speak, gesturing expansively and spilling his drink, she finally covered his mouth with her hand. Tony gazed at her, adoring and chastised, removed her hand and kissed the palm.

  
Steve drained his glass and turned away.

  
The bartender saw him coming and shook his head when Steve sat his glass down. “I gotta cut you off, man,” he said.

  
“I told you I’m not driving.”

  
“Doesn’t matter. This is what, your eighth? I can’t."

Steve bristled. “Do I look drunk to you, son?” he growled.

  
The kid stepped back. He was young and skinny, his red uniform shirt billowing around him. The ghost of adolescent acne on his cheeks flamed even as the color drained from them. “Come on, man,” he pleaded gruffly.

  
“Look at you. Causing problems wherever you go.”

Steve felt the anger flow out of him on a rush of breath. “Hi, Nat.”

  
“Hi, Steve.” Her eyes shifted to the bartender. Under the force of her look, the kid relaxed, the tense set of his shoulders eased. She leaned on the bar and beckoned him forward. The kid was helpless not to come near. “Do you know who this is?” Natasha asked, voice low.

  
“Yeah,” he said, eyes flicking to Steve. “Yeah, but we’ve got rules. I could get fired.”

  
Nat smiled and when she did, the curve of her lips became the only thing in the world. “Tell you what,” she said and tapped the kid’s wrist with one red nail, “you pour two drinks for me, walk away, and you get the satisfaction of knowing you made my night.” She nodded her head in Steve’s direction. “And Captain America’s.”

  
The kid hitched in a breath, held it, then let it out. “Okay. But this really has to be the last one.”

  
“I promise,” she said.

  
The kid poured out and she winked at him as he walked away.

  
Natasha handed a glass to Steve then sipped her own, eyeing him over the rim. “I was kidding before, but you really were causing trouble.”

  
“I didn’t mean to.”

  
“Eight?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow. “I thought you couldn’t get drunk.”

  
Steve raised one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Just testing a theory.”

  
“By getting a kid fired?”

  
“He didn’t say he’d get fired,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably, like a kid himself. “I should apologize.”

  
He sat his glass down and started down the bar. Nat grabbed his hand and pulled him back. “Better let it be, Steve,” she said. “No harm done.”

  
“Still,” he pressed and cast an uncertain eye down to where the kid stood. “I was a jerk. I need to make it right.”

  
Nat reached into the top of her dress, smiling a little when Steve looked pointedly away. She pulled a twenty from her cleavage, finished off her drink at a swallow, and left the money underneath the glass. 

“There,” she said. “All better. Okay?”

  
Steve nodded. “Okay.”

  
She took his hand and Steve let her lead him away from the bar. They stuck to the shadows, for which he was grateful. His outburst with the bartender had left him feeling ashamed and guilty. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. He remembered well the time when he had been the skinny kid just trying to make it in the world, and the fact that he’d tried to intimidate this kid left a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d been stupid to drink in the first place. If alcohol was going to turn him into one of the bullies he’d always fought against, he’d just leave it alone altogether. Hey, maybe he’d gotten drunk after all. His tired mind grasped the idea and held on stubbornly tight. It was better than believing the alternative--that seeing Tony with Pepper had anything to do with it. It didn’t even bear thinking about.

  
Tiny tables littered the outside of the dancefloor. Steve pulled out a chair for Nat then sat next to her. He saw her eyes flicking here and there, picking out the team, picking out the exits. They lingered on Clint and Laura for only a beat longer than anywhere else. Steve noticed but dismissed it.

  
“So,” he said, trying for casual and almost making it, “where were you while I was making an ass out of myself and probably making the front page of The Times?”

  
“The Times would never make that the front page,” she answered, crossing her legs and letting her shoe dangle from one toe. “TMZ on the other hand…”

  
He put his head in his hands. He’d forgotten about TMZ. “Shit,” he muttered.

  
Her eyes widened minutely. “Quite the potty-mouth tonight,” she mused. “I should try and get you drunk more often.”

  
He chuckled and the slight rift between them mended seamlessly. He found himself leaning a little closer to her side. Tony and Pepper were dancing now, and being with Nat soothed whatever pang of what?--jealousy? hurt?--that he felt almost completely.

  
Almost.

  
“So?” he prompted. “Spill.”

  
Her eyes flitted around the room again, restless, searching. Steve admired and appreciated it. He knew she was trained as a spy, but she had a soldier’s eye. Like called to like, his mother would have said. The thought that his mother would have liked Natasha lit a warm fire in his chest. He leaned closer still.

  
“Perimeter check,” she answered finally. “Everything’s secure on the floors above and below this one. I’m sure Tony’s got FRIDAY on active duty.” She snagged a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “I assume you checked things out here,” she continued as the waiter left.

  
“Yeah,” Steve answered, matching her tone. “I spot five security guards. Four points of egress. Two guys are packing. There and there.”

  
“I missed the one by the bandstand,” she said, tracking his casual gestures. “Are they a threat?”

  
“I’ve been watching, and Clint’s aware. I saw him looking too.”

  
“Wanda and Vision?”

  
Steve considered. They were dancing closer now, Vis holding Wanda as though she were something special he needed to protect. “Let’s give them the night off.”

  
“We should limit Clint’s involvement too. Laura and the baby need to be his priority.”

  
“Agreed.”

  
Natasha slipped her shoe back on and bent down to adjust her stocking, straightening the seam that ran up the back. She was watching Clint openly now. Laura too, but mostly Clint. She pushed her hair behind her ear. “What’s our play?” she asked. “I’ll back you.”

  
“Observe,” he said.

  
“We don’t engage?”

  
“Not yet.”

  
The air between them had changed subtly. There was a charge that had not been there before, something that crackled and sizzled. He’d felt it before, during the war. While gearing up for a run, it had been as if an electric current had gone rogue and jumped from one man to the next. Hair stood on end, muscles quivered and jumped. During missions now, he felt it still. It was an eagerness for battle, a desire to go in swinging and make sure you and your squad were the ones who came out whole. Had he felt it before the serum? He’d been in plenty of fights, plenty of scuffles with neighborhood toughs. He’d come away bloody and bruised, but never broken. The truth was, they made him feel alive in a way that nothing else ever had. He’d relished it then and he relished it now. And Nat felt the same. The same hard glow was in her eyes, the same tautness in her muscles. He sensed them thrumming just beneath the surface of her skin, and knew that if he touched her now, he’d feel her trembling.

  
Steve locked his eyes on the target. The man was tall, dark-haired, good-looking in a vague, unremarkable way. He was easy to look at and easy to forget. Very few terrorists looked like terrorists. They looked like your neighbor, the guy who made your coffee or sold you your car. They looked like the guy by the bandstand.

  
It was time. He was ready. By unspoken agreement, Steve had claimed the one by the bandstand. Nat’s eyes were trained on the other one by the window.

  
“Ready,” Steve said. “On my mark.”

  
“Anytime.”

  
His hands balled into fists, ready, eager to do this. He was nervous and awkward everywhere but on the battlefield, and right now that was here, right here at this stupid, glitzy party that he’d only attended because Tony had asked. Tony with his eyes, and his laugh, and his ego. Tony.

  
Tony was coming this way.

  
Steve leaned back in his seat. “Abort,” he said under his breath.

  
“Confirm that?”

  
“Abort. Tony.”

  
Natasha eased herself, crossing her legs, immediately and expertly arranging her face and body into a semblance of casual grace. Steve envied her that. It was something he could never accomplish. It took him a long time to come down from that place, that mind-set where the fight was paramount. It was why he spent so much time in the training room after missions, punching it out on sand-filled bags, pounding into them until he fell back, panting, exhausted, drenched in sweat. It was the only way he could relax. The only way he’d ever get to sleep.

  
He’d hoped he could get by without it tonight, but that wouldn’t happen now.

  
The reason was right in front of him.

  
“Hey,” Tony said, grinning, “how’s my two favorite people?”

  
He dropped extravagantly, suddenly into Steve’s lap and lifted his feet into Natasha’s, sprawling across them both.

  
“Uh,” Steve said. And that was all. His brain was a blank, black hole. He raised his hands helplessly. There was nowhere to put them.

  
“Ugh,” Tony muttered, “you’re a terrible cuddler, Rogers.” He stood up and settled himself in Nat’s lap instead. She curled one arm around his waist and the other over his shoulder. “Oh, that’s better,” Tony said. “Take a lesson, Cap.”

  
Steve felt his face go red and his hands resumed their pre-battle clench. Yes, there would be some time spent in the gym tonight. He let out a frustrated breath.

  
“Enjoying the party, kids?” Tony asked, and before either could even think of answering, he went on. “I only ask because you seemed very intent on ruining it before I decided to step in. Miss Potts is a patient woman, but she puts a lot of work into these things and would be annoyed if it was, you know, avenged, for lack of a better word.” He snapped his fingers. “Wait, just thought of one. Fucked up. Yeah, that’s more appropriate. Fucked up.”

  
Natasha’s hand stole into his hair and stroked. It seemed unconscious, but Steve knew it for what it was--a diversionary tactic. She really was good.

  
“What are you talking about, Tony?” she asked sweetly.

  
“Our little insurrectionist pals over there. FRIDAY clocked them when they came in and alerted me.” He leaned into her hand a bit, taking the bait without even realizing it. “I had it all under control until I saw you two over-achievers getting ready to go all Colonel Sanders on their asses.”

  
Steve blinked, confused. “Colonel Sanders? Isn’t that the chicken guy?”

  
“Right. Who’s the other one? With the flag in the movie?”

  
A flash of righteous anger flared in Steve’s stomach. His fists clenched tighter. “Do you mean _General. Patton_?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  
“That’s the one.”

  
“That is so disrespectful, Tony,” Steve began. “General Patton was a—”

  
Tony waved his hand dismissively. “Spare me the history lesson. Watch.”

  
He lifted his chin toward the terrorist in front of the bandstand. He had a drink in his hand and as Steve watched, it slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor. The man followed, crumpling at the knee and falling face-first onto the ground. The people around him “oohed” and formed a little interested group. One of Tony’s security guards broke through and lifted the man up. I was impossible to hear what he was saying, but by the looks on the crowd’s faces, it was probably something about indulging in too much champagne.

  
Steve looked in the corner by the window. That one was gone too.

  
“Where’d the other one go?” he asked.

  
“Happy took him down while everybody was distracted.” Tony made a wiping gesture with his hands. “Done and done.”

  
A little smile played around the corners of Nat’s red-painted lips. “You drugged him?”

  
Tony shrugged, clearly pleased with himself.

  
“What if he hadn’t drunk anything?” Steve asked.

  
“A couple of my guys have hypos up their sleeves. Bump into someone, push the plunger...easy.” He raised his eyebrows, smiling at Steve. “Pretty cool, huh?”

  
“Well, yeah, actually,” Steve said, surprising both Natasha and Tony. Surprising himself a little, too. “I mean, it’s simple. Effective. Smart.” He shrugged, his face coloring again under their combined scrutiny. “I’m impressed.”

  
“God, Rogers, I love it when you talk dirty,” Tony sighed.

  
Steve ducked his head, almost giddy with embarrassment and pleasure. He felt flushed. It was the whiskey kicking in, he was almost positive of it. “Shut up, Tony.”

  
“And on that note.” Tony stood up smoothly from Natasha’s lap and straightened the lapels of his jacket. “I’ll talk to Happy in a minute and make sure all’s well. I’ve got FRIDAY vetting all the wait-staff and caterers. There had to be an inside man. But you two,” he said sternly, “need to chill out and enjoy the party.”

  
Steve stood up. “Maybe I should—”

  
Tony put a hand on his chest. “Stand down, Captain,” he said. “My guys have got it handled. Let them do their jobs. God knows I pay them enough for it.”

  
“Okay, Tony.”

  
“You good?”

  
“Sure.”

  
“Good,” Tony said, then sighed. “Why’d you have to get me thinking about Colonel Sanders? Now I want chicken. FRIDAY, order in some KFC, okay?” He started away, back toward the party, back toward Pepper, then turned back. “Oh, and seriously, Cap? Cuddling lessons. Think about it.”

  
And then he was gone.

  
Steve looked after him, struck dumb--again--by the sheer manic energy he radiated. He watched as Tony reached Pepper, twirled her around, and kissed her hand.

  
“Oh my god.”

  
Steve turned back to Natasha. He’d almost forgotten she was there. In the face of Tony’s all-consuming personality, it was easy to get lost, easy to forget where you were. Easy to forget who you were, what you were, and that you had no business wondering what it would be like to just curl up in the eye of the storm that was Tony Stark and live out the rest of your life with him raging all around you.

  
“Nat?” he said.

  
“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. I teased you about it, but…”

  
Steve swallowed. “See what?”

  
“You,” she answered, her eyes going to Tony, then back again. “Tony?”

  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, turning away, turning back into the shadows. He picked up her glass of champagne and threw it back, coughing at the bubbles tickling his nose and throat. He retreated further into the corner. It was dark here. Safe. he closed his eyes.

  
Her hand was a gentle weight on his back, her voice a soft whisper. “Steve?”

  
He tried to smile, tried to tell her he was fine, not to worry, everything was right with him, everything was right with the world, but she could see through him. He knew it as well as he knew his own name. He shrugged instead. Shrugged and sighed. Nothing was right with him. Nothing ever had been. This was just one more symptom, one more malady. But there was no serum to fix this one.

  
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

  
“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  
“Does he know?”

  
“No,” he breathed gruffly.

  
“Maybe you should…” she began tentatively, but he shook his head.

  
“No. I couldn’t.”

  
“Steve,” she said, taking his hand. “You’ve heard as many of his MIT stories as I have. You know he’s open to it.”

  
“That’s not it.”

  
“What then? It’s not like it used to be. No one would care.” She spoke in a gentle but firm way that made him feel very good. He’d called her a friend for a while now, and right now it really felt true. But she was wrong.

  
“Someone would care,” he said.

  
“Who, Glenn Beck and the right-wing brigade? To hell with them.”

  
He did smile at that, and his heart felt a little lighter. “I don’t give a damn what they think.”

  
“Well, what is it, then? You and Tony,” she shook her head, “it’s kind of perfect. You guys could be so happy together.”

And that was the problem. Natasha had put her finger on it without even realizing it. He took her shoulders and turned her around so they were facing the dancefloor. Tony was there, the brightest spot in the room, the brightest spot in the galaxy, and Pepper was in his arms. She was smiling into his eyes, that tiny smile that someone in love can never suppress, even if they want to.

  
“Look at her, Nat,” Steve said quietly. “Look at him. Me and Tony could be happy, yeah, maybe, but they already _are_. I can’t jeopardize that. What kind of person would that make me?”

  
She stood sill, his hands lingering on her shoulders. She looked at Tony and Pepper for a long time, then she turned her head, slowly, deliberately. Steve followed her gaze to where Clint still sat with his wife and their baby. Laura was cradling the child now, and Clint’s arm was thrown over her shoulders, leaning into her, his head resting against hers. Even from this distance, they gave off a clean, simple love.

  
“I get it,” Natasha said, her voice a little broken. Steve tightened his grip on her. “Sometimes it’s best to just keep it to yourself.” She turned to him and smiled a brave smile. “Isn’t it?”

  
Steve nodded and brushed her hair back behind her ear. “Yeah. It is.”

  
They stood looking at each other in the dim light, both of them thinking of someone else.

  
Steve held out his hand and she took it. “Do you...want to dance?” he asked.

  
“You learned?”

  
He shook his head. “I thought you could show me.”

  
She smiled. It was sad and sweet. “I’d love that.”

  
“Do you mind if we just stay here?”

  
“No. This is perfect.”

  
Steve took her in his arms, letting her adjust them, letting her take the lead, and when she laid her head on his chest, he held her and swayed to some quiet song he had never heard before. And it was just right for both of them, there in the shadows, bodies pressed together, minds somewhere else. Because sometimes the right partner isn’t the one you love, it’s the one you understand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Nat nighttime chats and cuddles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy this short chapter of pure sweetness. Thanks for reading!

Natasha sweet-talked her new bartender friend out of a bottle of champagne and two glasses, and she and Steve rode up the elevator together in companionable silence. When they reached the common floor, Steve stopped in the kitchen. Tony’s chicken was on the counter. Steve took the bucket. He left the sides, though. He wasn’t cruel. Now he and Nat were sitting on his bed, the bucket between them, now mostly empty, the bottle of champagne fizzing it’s last on his bedside table. Steve had kicked off his shoes and taken off his dress-shirt and tie. Nat had stripped her dress unceremoniously over her head and rummaged in his drawer until she found a t-shirt. It was huge on her, hanging down almost to her knees. In it, she looked like a little girl, and it made Steve glad to see her like that. He had a feeling she hadn’t been allowed to look like a child even when she’d been one

“Tony’s going to be pissed that you stole his chicken,” she remarked, tossing a bone back into the bucket.

“We could just tell him Clint ate it.”

“Works for me. Although, honestly, he probably won’t even remember he ordered it.”

“Yeah, how long did those gyros sit in the fridge?”

“It was a very long time,” she said, and put the bucket on the floor. “Long enough that they made the whole kitchen smell every time somebody opened the fridge.”

Steve laughed. “Thank god for Bruce. He finally bit the bullet and threw them out. I don’t think anyone else dared.”

“I know. He’s sweet that way,” she said. Her voice was husky, wistful. Bruce had been gone a while now. No one knew where.

“Bruce is a good guy,” Steve said lightly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “He’s smart. And nice.”

She patted his leg. “Thanks, Yente.”

He understood that reference.

“Alright, alright,” he said, flapping a hand at her. “Don’t say I didn’t try.”

She curled up on her side and pulled the blanket up to her chin. “Don’t worry, if we ever see him again, I’ll be sure to tell him you played his wing-man.”

“Don’t say that, Nat.” His brow furrowed into a disapproving frown. “Of course, we’ll see him again. He’s probably just holed up somewhere.”

“I hope so.”

“Me too.”

He slid down against the headboard until he was lying beside her. It was strange having someone else here in his bed. Strange, but good. He took up a lot of room, but lately the mattress seemed to get bigger every time he laid down on it. Bigger. Colder. Emptier. Having Natasha here made it smaller again.

She looked at him with dark eyes. “Can I ask you about Tony?”

“I guess.”

“How long?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. A while. I didn’t really realize what it was until Clint’s farm, though.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. They put us in the same room.”

Natasha hid her face in her hands. He thought she might be trying to stifle a laugh and he was struck again by how young she looked. “I know,” she said, emerging from behind her fingers. “Clint thought it would be funny.”

“I figured that was why.”

“Sounds like it back-fired.”

“Did it?” he asked, raising a cynical eyebrow. “The whole thing is kind of ridiculous.”

She smoothed her finger along his brow. “Don’t talk like that. It doesn’t suit you.”

He gave her a half-smile and she moved closer. “Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing, really,” he muttered, and it was the truth. Nothing had happened. He’d stretched out in one of the two twin beds with the window open…

_He was a city boy, born and bred, so it was a new sensation, the breeze slipping over his body, the moon peeking in through the window, throwing a puddle of bone-white light in his lap. The sound of crickets was loud, unnerving. He closed his eyes, listening to their shrill call, and then it seemed to change, grow less reedy, more liquid, like water rolling in, water in sinister waves. He could feel it, cold, over-powering. He tried to open his eyes and could not. He was going down again, into the ocean, into those dank, frozen depths. Alone again, afraid, his limbs heavy with the paralysis that comes with hypothermia, but awake, aware until the very end, unable to move, unable to cry out, but conscious until the very last second, the last second when his thundering heart simply stopped._

_Then there was a sharp thud and he was able to move again. He shot up, breathing hard, eyes wide, wild with memories._

_“Jesus, Rogers, you going to live?”_

_Tony stood by the now-closed window, looking at him curiously._

_“Tony?” he panted._

_“You okay?”_

_Steve scrubbed a heavy hand over his face. It came away wet with sweat and tears. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. His entire body was trembling. He could feel it. Was powerless to stop it._

_“Steve?”_

_He let out a shaky breath and balled his hands into tight fists. He wasn’t in the water. He had to remember that. The water had been before. In another life._

_He felt a touch on his shoulder, a point of contact, and his whole being seemed to surge toward it. \_

_“Hey,” Tony said. “You alright there, soldier?” His hand was warm, comforting, his voice concerned._

_Steve took in a breath, held it, then let it out. He did it again, counting the seconds like Sam had told him to do when he got overwhelmed. Once more--five in, hold five, five out--and then he was back. Back here in Clint’s house with the moon in the window and Tony sitting beside him._

_“Are you okay?”_

_Steve nodded. “Sorry. I have dreams sometimes.”_

_“Nightmares.” It was not a question._

_“Yeah.”_

_“Yeah.” Tony’s hand was still on his shoulder. It felt nice. _Real_. “Can I get you anything?”_

_“No,” he said, “I’m okay now.”_

_“You’re sure?”_

_Steve nodded again._

_“‘Kay,” Tony said, and squeezed Steve’s shoulder before letting go. He stood up and went to the other bed. Steve watched him turn the blankets down and climb under them._

_“Not exactly the Ritz, huh?” Steve said, still a bit shaky._

_Tony grinned at him. “Not exactly. But it’s nice. They’re nice.”_

_“Yeah, they are.”_

_Tony lay down on his back, his hand behind his head. “Barton has a wife,” he mused. “And kids? Christ, he’s like a kid himself.”_

_“I know. He must be doing something right, though.”_

_“I guess so. He seems to be pulling this off.”_

_“Do you ever—” Steve began, then stopped._

_“What?”_

_“Do you ever think about this? Someday?”_

_Tony glanced around the room. “Maybe not exactly this--a little too much ‘Little House on the Prairie’ for me--but I don’t know, maybe like this. What about you? Is there a little woman and 2.3 kids in your future, Rogers?”_

_Steve thought about it. He’d thought about it before, of course. Before the ice, he’d thought about having it with Peggy. A little place in the English countryside. A garden. A cat on the windowsill. A chair where he could sit at night and draw. A bed where they could curl up and sleep in each other’s arms. It was harder to see now, the idea only a notion, not a real possibility. “I don’t think so,” he said finally._

_Tony turned on his side and leaned on his elbow. “How can Captain _America_ not want the _American_ dream? That’s so unpatriotic I think I’m going to puke.”_

_“I didn’t say I didn’t want it,” he said self-consciously. “It’s just not what I was designed for.”_

_“That’s bullshit.” Tony punched his pillow and laid back down. “All of the people who ‘designed’ you--Erskine, Howard, the rest of them--they’re all dead.” He yawned and closed his eyes. “You can do whatever the fuck you want.”_

_Steve looked at Tony. It was okay now. With Tony’s eyes closed, Steve could look for a minute. He could see how the moonlight caught in the little strands of gray in his hair and spun them into silver. See how his dark lashes lay smoothly against the skin of his cheekbones. See the glow of the arc reactor in his chest, the light a safe constant. His hands lay on the bedspread, pale, long-fingered, talented. Steve could feel the lingering warmth of them on his shoulder. He rubbed his cheek there._

_“Do you think so?” he asked quietly, not really expecting an answer, but Tony opened his eyes._

_“Of course, I do.”_

Lying with Natasha now, Steve thought of those words, how simple they were, how mundane. _Of course, I do_. He remembered how he had lain back down on the bed and listened to Tony’s breath even out and deepen as he slept. He remembered how he’d closed his own eyes, unafraid of the nightmares because there was something about this situation that felt so very safe. He remembered wishing Tony was closer. _Of course, I do._ He remembered realizing in a quiet epiphany that from that moment on,_ his_ course had been set. His course was Tony.

“Nothing, really,” he told Nat. “Tony fell asleep and I looked at him and thought I wouldn’t mind falling asleep with him every night for the rest of my life.” Steve smiled over at her, a little embarrassed, but only a little. She was easy to talk to. “Pretty corny, huh?”

She shrugged one shoulder, but she was smiling too, a soft faraway look in her eyes. “A little. But it’s nice. A nice feeling to have.”

“What about Clint? How did you know?”

“There wasn’t really one moment. He’s saved my ass a hundred times. I’ve saved his. We’ve been together for so long. I’ve just always known.”

“Does he know?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “We don’t talk about it. It’s just there.” She sighed. “He loves me too, you know. Maybe not in the same way, but just as much. He’d die for me.”

Steve brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. “He’s not the only one.”

Natasha moved closer until she was pressed against his side, her head on his chest. He put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head, the sweet fragrance of her shampoo filling his nose.

One more question threaded through his mind. Natasha had made it so he didn’t have to go to the gym tonight, didn’t have to beat his body into submission, but he was going to have to ask. It was the price he had to pay for sleep.

“Does Laura know?”

He could almost feel her mind working. It was a strange, nearly magical thing to behold.

“I haven’t told her,” she said carefully, “and I’m sure Clint hasn’t either, but I think every woman knows when someone else is in love with her man.”

He drew in a breath. It was the answer he’d expected. And dreaded. “Do you think Pepper knows?”

“About you?”

“Yeah.”

She twisted her head so she could see his eyes. “Do you think she knows?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes when we’re in the same room she gives me this_ look._”

“What kind of look? Angry?”

“Not angry, exactly,” he said, thinking about Pepper’s elegant face, her eyes darkening, her brows contracting a bit. “More like...pity.”

Nat looked at him sympathetically. “Oh, Steve,” she said. “Honey, she’s probably just looking at your clothes.”

A feeling of utter shock ran through him, and then she was giggling, more like a child than ever. He shoved her lightly with his shoulder. “Nope, no way are you staying here now,” he said in mock-anger. “Go back to your own room, traitor.”

  
She wrapped her arm around his waist, holding on. “No, I’m sorry,” she laughed. “Let me stay. You’re too comfy.”

“Fine,” he grumbled happily.

“You really don’t mind if I stay, do you?”

“No,” he said, and pulled her back into his arms. She was comfy too. “I want you to.”

They lay together in the dark, the faint sounds of the city and their breathing the only noises in the room. It was not the way Steve had thought the night would end, but it was a good way. Nat’s body was soft against him and gave off a lazy heat that was like sitting by a low fire at the end of a long day. Sleep reached out for him, caressing with gentle fingers. For once, he didn’t have to chase it, and that was more than a relief. It was a goddamn miracle.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the beginning. There's arguing, pining, and hand-holding. All good things.

The bed was empty when Steve woke. He ran sleepy fingers where Nat’s body had been. The sheets were cool to the touch, but when he pressed his face into her pillow, the ghost of her perfume remained. She was gone, but she had left her magic behind: the bed still seemed normal-sized. With any luck, it would stay that way for a while.

He got up, made his bed like he had in the army, tight and smooth, then went through the room, setting it to rights as he did every morning. Part of this routine came from the military, part came from his mother. She’d liked everything neat and in its place. _If you can’t take care of what you have, you shouldn’t have it._ She’d told him that, growing up. It had been one of her mottos, and it was still a good one. One he believed in.

Once he was satisfied with his rooms, he went down the hall to the kitchen. It was still early. The sun was just coming up over the skyline. No one else had been here yet. Steve scooped coffee grounds into the coffeemaker and turned it on. He didn’t drink coffee--the caffeine made him jittery--but everyone else did, and by unspoken rule, the coffee-pot was kept full from dawn until dusk. Unspoken by everyone, that was, except Tony, who spoke it enough for everyone else combined.

He opened the fridge and took out the orange juice. It was the extra-pulpy kind. His favorite. When he’d moved into the Tower, there had only been the smooth, pulp-free kind in here. Then one morning he’d made an off-hand comment about liking the pulp. Tony went off on him, making an extravagant argument about how disgusting the little bits of pulp were--_If I wanted to chew my juice, Rogers, I’d...ew, gross, who wants to chew their fucking juice?!_\--but the next morning there was a bottle of it in the fridge right next to the smooth one.

Steve didn’t mention it. He just drank it with a little glowing ember burning in the pit of his stomach every time he did. Tony’s kindness was something that was easy to overlook, but at the core of his being, behind the bravado and snark, it was what defined him. What made Steve love him.

He poured himself a glass and leaned against the counter to drink it. He should go out on his run, but he decided to let it go for the day. He was already late, and this morning it didn’t seem as necessary as it usually did.

He didn’t realize he had been waiting for Natasha until she padded into the kitchen. She was still wearing his t-shirt, khaki-green with US ARMY across the front, but she had slipped on a pair of pants at some point during the morning. Her face was innocent of make-up, but her nails were still the dark red they had been the night before. Her feet were bare.

“Hi, Steve.”

“Hi, Nat.”

She opened the cupboard to get a mug, stretching on her toes to reach the one she wanted. “You made coffee. You’re my hero.”

“There’s juice too, you know,” he said, and she groaned.

“It’s too early for the Vitamin C talk again, Steve.”

He held out his glass. “Would you please just humor me? There’s nothing good for you in coffee.”

She looked at it and wrinkled her nose. “Yuck. Pulp. No thanks.”

“Nat--”

“No way. And besides, coffee has antioxidants.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “You’re so cute. I’ll have some fruit later, okay, Dad?”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay," he relented and drank the rest of the pulpy juice himself. “What are you doing today?”

“Clint and I are dropping Laura and Nathaniel off at home then going to Brazil.”

Steve nodded. “Right. Assassination attempt.”

“Mm-hm. All their top officials are freaking out. I guess I don’t blame them.”

“Yeah.”

“What about you?”

He rubbed his hand over his face. “I should go over the re-con from Algiers.”

“Sounds like a party.”

“I guess.”

She poured another cup of coffee and dumped cream and sugar into it. “I’ve got to go.”

“Okay. You guys be careful. Stay together and call for back-up if you need it. The Brazilian government said all their armed forces are at your disposal.”

She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “We’ll be okay.”

“I know you will.” She started away and he put a hand on her hip to keep her near. “Nat,” he whispered, not quite meeting her eye, “thanks for last night.”

Natasha put her hand on his cheek and turned his face toward hers. Her eyes were dark and serious as she pulled him closer and pressed her lips against his. The feel of her mouth was friendly, but it wasn’t exactly the kiss of a friend. It made him wonder if this morning would have gone a bit differently if she had still been in his bed when he woke up. It also made him wonder if that was the reason why she had left.

But then she pulled away, and although she was a bit breathless, she was just Nat, and he was just Steve, and they were what they had been and would always be--just friends.

“See you in a few days?”

“Sure. Be careful,” he said again, and she left. On her way out the door, Steve heard her say, “Hi, Tony.”

“Hey.”

Steve ducked his head. He could feel a red blush creeping out of the collar of his shirt. He got the juice back out of the fridge. He didn’t really want any more, but he needed something to do with his hands. He could feel Tony pointedly not looking at him as he poured his own cup of coffee. An awkwardness had crept into the room when Tony entered and his first instinct was to get away from it, but he straightened his spine. He could do this. It was just Tony.

“Morning,” Steve said, striving for casual.

“Morning.”

He exhaled. Good job, Steve. “Well, I should--”

“I see you took my advice,” Tony said without turning around.

“Advice?”

“Yeah. Last night? I told you you could use cuddling lessons, remember?” He barked a short, hard laugh that sounded nothing like his usual one. “Who knew you were such a quick study?”

“Nat and I are just friends.”

“Yeah,” Tony said, turning around. “I’ve been ‘just friends’ with a lot of people, too.” He quirked his fingers into little air-quotes, spilling coffee out of his cup and onto the floor.

Small seeds of anger began to take root in Steve’s stomach. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tony laughed. “Trust me, Rogers, this is one area where I know _exactly_ what I’m talking about. A lot better than you do, that’s for sure.”

“Knock it off, Tony.”

“I just don’t think she seems like your type.” He gulped his coffee and put the cup on the counter with a loud clunk. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s got assets,” he said, sketching a little hourglass shape in the air, “but I think she might be more than you can handle.”

Steve had heard enough. The anger bloomed, then ran rampant. “Don’t talk about her that way,” he warned. “She’s a colleague, and a friend, and a _lady_. I don’t want to hear one more word out of your mouth about her.”

“Actually, I think I’m talking about _you_, not _her_. And p.s., if you don’t want people to talk, you should rethink making out in a _shared_ space.”

“We weren’t making out, we were just--”

Tony held his hands up. “You know, I really don’t think I want to hear about what you were doing. Just do it somewhere else, huh? For the sake of everyone? We eat in here.”

Steve shook his head, his anger collapsing into bewilderment. “Whatever, Tony,” he muttered, and walked out. As he left, he heard the fridge door open, then Tony yelling, “FRIDAY, who ate my goddamn chicken?”  
\---

Steve meant to spend the day going over the Algiers mission like he’d told Natasha he was going to do, but once he got into the office, and all the paperwork and videos were in front of him, he knew there was no way he would be able to concentrate on it. His encounter with Tony--his _fight_ with Tony--weighed heavily on him. Mostly because he didn’t understand what had caused it. True, they had been in the kitchen when Nat kissed him, and as she’d told him before, public displays of affection made people uncomfortable, but Tony was always very public with his own affection. Why should the short kiss he and Natasha had shared bother him so much?  
  
Steve worked as long as he could, but finally swept all the intel off the desk and back into the drawers. There was no point in trying to do more. If he tried, he could make a mistake, and one little mistake on his part could cost someone else their life.  
  
His mind tried to conjure the image of Bucky. The image of him falling. The image of him on that freeway overpass, his mask torn aside, his eyes cold and dead.  
  
Steve jumped to his feet and practically ran to the training room. He didn’t even bother wrapping his hands before laying into one of the sandbags hanging from the ceiling. He just lashed out, again and again, pouring all of his confusion and anger and fear into his fists.  
  
It wasn’t until he’d gone through three bags and his knuckles were a bloody ruin, that he knew he needed to apologize. Tony had been wrong to say anything about Nat, but Steve’s own hostility had come from a place not as entirely chivalrous as he’d first wanted to believe: Tony had seen Nat kissing him and Steve felt guilty. Guilty for the act, guilty for liking it, and guilty because deep down, it felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of Tony and Steve’s feelings for him. Tony had probably felt that guilt and sense of betrayal coming from Steve and fed off it. He was extremely intuitive. Steve’s anger had fueled his own. It was the only explanation that made any sense.  
  
Steve showered and dressed and made a perfunctory tour of the common floor. He knew Tony wouldn’t be there, but he looked anyway. When he was sure Tony wasn’t up here, he got on the elevator and pushed the button for the lab. When upset, Steve ran for the gym. When Tony was upset, he retreated to the lab. It was funny when he thought about it. As different as they were, they did have common ground.  
  
When the elevator opened, Steve got off and went to the door. Music blared even through the soundproofing. It must be a cacophony of sound inside. Tony reveled in it. Or maybe he didn’t notice it at all.  
  
Finally, the music level came down. The door slid open and Steve stepped inside. As many times as he’d been in here, he still felt overwhelmed by the sheer complication of machinery and equipment that took up every available surface. But almost worse was the reek of ideas, the stink of knowledge he would never, could never, understand. The fact that Tony knew everything in here, the fact that it was he, himself, who gave off that nearly physical aroma was the most overwhelming thing of all. Away from the lab, that was lessened, and Steve could even trick himself into believing it wasn’t there at all. But here, in Tony’s place, the place where his true nature was allowed to not only thrive, but run wild, Steve was almost afraid of his mind, afraid of him.  
  
Tony stood behind the workbench, a piece of the armor in front of him. The hot smell of a soldering iron permeated this corner as he applied it to the metal. He didn’t look up, but he didn’t tell Steve to leave either.  
  
“Hey,” Steve began uncertainly.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“Repairs?” His voice sounded exquisitely stupid in his ears.  
  
“Nah. Just messing around.”  
  
“Did you read any of the stuff on Algiers?”  
  
Steve felt like kicking himself, but Tony glanced up and lifted the corner of his mouth in a tiny smile. “That’s your department, Cap. I’m just a glorified mechanic. You’re brains here.”  
  
Steve looked around the lab. “Then we’re really screwed.”  
  
Tony laughed, his own unique, natural laugh, and Steve smiled, relieved. “Look, Tony,” he began, but Tony shook his head.  
  
“Let’s don’t, ‘kay? We don’t need to do all that, do we?”  
  
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”  
  
Tony shook his head and cocked an eyebrow. “You can’t ever let me have the last word, can you, soldier?”  
  
Steve put his fingers to his lips and twisted them in a locking motion, then mimed throwing the key over his shoulder.  
  
“Fair enough,” Tony said. He put the soldering iron down and adjusted some miniscule bit of wire by hand. “It’s none of my business, whatever’s with you and Nat,” he said. “I didn’t mean to say anything bad about her. You know that, right?”  
  
“Of course, I know it, Tony.”  
  
“Mostly because she’d kick my ass.”  
  
“She could kick all of our asses.”  
  
“That’s probably true.”  
  
“We really are just friends, though,” Steve pressed. He wanted Tony to understand that, if nothing else. He needed him to. “I had a bad night. She was just making sure I was okay.”  
  
Tony looked up at him, concern turning his eyes nearly black. “More nightmares?”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
“After we got back from Sokovia, I had FRIDAY set a protocol to alert me if you were in distress during the night,” he said.  
  
“You did?”  
  
“Yeah. Not to spy on you or anything, just to make sure you were alright.” Tony let out a breath and ran a distracted hand through his hair. “I should have asked you who you wanted to be your contact. Sorry. Sometimes I do things...well, you know.” He raised his voice a little. “FRIDAY, change Captain Rogers’ contact for Protocol 713-B to Natasha Rom--”  
  
“No,” Steve said. It seemed very loud in the quiet lab. Tony looked at him, surprised. Steve looked back. “No, FRIDAY, don’t,” he went on. “Please. Keep it as Tony.”  
  
“Boss?” FRIDAY asked, her chipper voice questioning.  
  
“Whoever he wants, FRI,” Tony answered lightly, but his eyes were still dark on Steve’s blue ones.  
  
“You. Tony,” Steve said. “I want you.”  
  
Realizing what he had just said, Steve braced himself for a joke, but Tony just nodded.  
  
“Confirm that, FRIDAY,” he said.  
  
“No changes to Captain Rogers’ contact for 713-B, boss.”  
  
“Got it.”  
  
“713-B, huh?” Steve said. He suddenly felt very light, as if even a puff of breeze could blow him away.  
  
“Yup. It’s all you, Cap.”  
  
Steve nodded. “Thanks, Tony. Thanks for doing that.”  
  
“I’ve got a little experience with that kind of thing myself. It sucks.”  
  
“Yeah. It does.” He glanced up. “Thank you too, FRIDAY,” he said. “For keeping an eye out.”  
  
“You’re very welcome, Captain.”  
  
Steve smiled, not feeling a bit strange about talking to her, even after Ultron. Feeling, in fact, gratified by the hint of approval in her voice.  
  
“What did you do to your hands?”  
  
Steve looked at them. The serum was helping, and they’d heal soon enough, but they still looked bruised and swollen. Blood had crusted in an ugly gash across the left one. The right just looked mangled. “Oh,” he said. “I forgot to wrap them before my workout.”  
  
“You can’t do that, Steve,” Tony said, coming around the bench. He went into the little bathroom and came back out with a first aid kit.  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Steve shrugged. “With the serum, it won’t take them long to heal.”  
  
“They look like shit. Sit down.”  
  
“They’re really okay.”  
  
“Just sit down.”  
  
Steve sat on the leather sofa against the wall and Tony perched on the coffee table in front of him. He took bandages out of the kit. “Let me see.”  
  
Steve held out his hands wordlessly.  
  
Tony took them and scrutinized the damage. He peeled gauze off the roll. “I don’t know why you won’t just let me make you gauntlets,” he muttered while he smoothed cream over the torn skin.  
  
“I told you I wouldn’t feel in control if my hands were completely covered. The shield wouldn’t feel right.”  
  
“God forbid you shouldn’t be in control one hundred percent of the time.”  
  
“Somebody’s got to be.”  
  
Tony pulled the bandage he was wrapping around Steve’s hand tight. Steve hissed in pain and Tony loosened it again. “Sorry.”  
  
A silence fell between them while Tony worked. Steve let it spin out. There was more he could say, like Tony’s constant need to fix things was, in its way, as much a controlling behavior as Steve barking orders, but he didn’t. It would just put Tony on the defensive and they had fought enough for one day.  
  
Besides, his hands _did_ feel better.  
  
“There,” Tony said as he finished taping the gauze in place. “Good as new.”  
  
Steve flexed his fingers. “Thanks.”  
  
“Do you want me to kiss them better, too?”  
  
Steve shook his head, keeping his eyes on the bandages. “No. It’s okay.”  
  
“Your call, soldier.”  
  
Tony stood up and took the first aid kit back into the bathroom. Steve did not look after him. While Tony had been sitting so close, holding his hands, it had felt as though all the oxygen had been leached from the air between them. Only now did it feel like it was coming back, like he could breathe again. Had Tony felt it? That breathless sensation that sapped the strength from his muscles and left him feeling as weak as a newborn colt in a green field? It seemed for a moment that maybe there had been _something_. Just in the heartbeat before he stood up and walked away, just after he’d told Steve it was his call. What might Tony have done if Steve had reached out and put his hand on Tony’s hip as he’d done with Natasha? Would his word of whispered thanks have brought about the same result from Tony as it had with Nat? What would Tony’s fingers feel like on his cheek? What would his mouth feel like on his?  
  
Steve got to his feet. This was no place to be thinking about such things. It was no time to do it either. “Thanks, Tony,” he called. “I’ll see you later.”  
  
“Running off?”  
  
“No,” Steve said quickly. “I just know you’re busy.”  
  
“Not really. Pepper flew to Washington last night after the party. I’m on my own tonight.”  
  
“Oh. Maybe--” Steve said, then closed his mouth.  
  
“Were you going to say something?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
Tony snorted a little and shoved his hands in his back pockets. He was wearing one of his endless band t-shirts. Led Zeppelin. Steve had tried listening to them. He wasn’t a fan. “Come on, soldier, spit it out.”  
  
“Maybe we could go get something to eat? If you wanted?”  
  
“There now, was that so hard?” He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “If that’s how you ask someone out, no wonder you’re still single.”  
  
“Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”  
  
“No, Steve. It was. It was that bad.”  
  
Some of that charged, breathless feeling was dissipating. Steve was glad to see it go. This was better. This banter and back-and-forth. It was easier. It was safer.  
  
“What do _you_ say? What’s the Tony-Stark-Approved way of asking?”  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said sadly. “That’s classified information.”  
  
“Fine. I was going to pay, but now I think you owe me.”  
  
“Alright, but if I’m paying, I get to pick the restaurant.”  
  
“Anything you want, Tony,” Steve said.  
  
“I know a place. It’s an old-timey diner. Right up your alley. They have amazing fried chicken, and since Barton ate my KFC…”  
  
Steve coughed, his eyes going wide. Tony didn’t notice. He was pulling on his scuffed leather jacket, checking his pockets for sunglasses and credit cards.  
  
“How do you know Clint ate it?” Steve asked.  
  
“FRIDAY told me. Where are my keys? Ah.” He scooped a set off the table he’d sat on to bandage Steve’s hands. “Ready?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Steve hung back, letting Tony go out first, letting him get out the door. When he was sure he was out of earshot, Steve glanced up again. “Thanks, FRIDAY.”  
  
There was a beat of silence, then her voice, as low as a con in a prison yard. “You’re welcome, Captain Rogers.”  
\---

It was late when they got back to the Tower. There had been no recurrence of that electrical feeling between them either at the diner or at the bar they’d went to for drinks afterward. Instead there had been easy talk and laughter. A couple of people stopped Tony for selfies, and he indulged each one. Nobody asked Steve. Without the shield, he was just another guy, but Tony Stark was Tony Stark with or without the armor.  
  
Steve admired the way Tony was with people. It was an admiration that bordered on secret pride. He’d heard Tony’s stories of Howard as a father and gathered that their relationship had not been a good one, but seeing the way Tony talked with people, he could not imagine Howard ever being disappointed in how his son turned out.  
  
They rode up the elevator to the common floor. Once there, they’d go their separate ways and the night would end. Tomorrow, Pepper would be back in town, or Rhodey or Sam would come over. There’d be a mission--or two, or ten--that needed to be fought. Clint and Natasha would come back, Vision and Wanda would show up. In short, life would go on just like it always had. And that would be good, but this, this quiet evening with just the two of them had been good, too.  
  
Better than good.  
  
The elevator stopped and they got off into the darkened living room. Tony took his leftovers into the kitchen. He’d had the waitress write his name on it in big bold letters with a black Sharpie--TONY STARK. Steve had to bite the insides of his cheeks to keep a straight face. When Clint came back, he’d take him out for a beer or something. He kind of felt like he owed him one.  
  
Steve went to the window and looked out. All of New York City lay at his feet. When he was a kid, he’d never been this high up. He’d been on the streets, in the alleys, down in the thick of it all. He barely even saw the tall buildings and never thought about going up into one of them. Standing here now, it felt different. There was a beauty he hadn’t seen before, back when he was on the ground. Maybe nothing was as beautiful when your feet were on the ground. Or maybe now he just had more to lose.  
  
“Thinking long thoughts?”  
  
“I guess.”  
  
“Has it changed much? Since you were a kid?”  
  
“Everything has.”  
  
“Must be rough.”  
  
Steve touched the glass. “Sometimes.”  
  
“You’re killing me with your angst right now, you know that?”  
  
“You asked.”  
  
Tony considered. “That’s true. Point, Rogers.”  
  
“You keeping score?”  
  
“Always.”  
  
“Who’s winning?”  
  
“Depends on how you look at it.”  
  
“How do you look at it?”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
Steve closed the blinds, putting New York in the dark. “You going back down to the lab?” he asked.  
  
Tony shrugged. “What about you? What are you going to do?”  
  
“I’ve got a lot of intel to look over.”  
  
“But are you really going to do that?”  
  
Steve smiled guiltily. “No.”  
  
“Want to watch a movie? It’s _Godfather_ week on TCM.”  
  
“I told you I”m not going to watch that, Tony,” Steve warned. “It glorifies mafia violence. I saw enough of that in the neighborhood when I was a kid.”  
  
Tony clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax, Steve, I was kidding. I just love your righteous indignation. It’s hot.”  
  
“Funny.”  
  
“I’m not laughing.” But he was. That patented Tony Stark smile was on his face, half-taunting, half-challenging, all-exasperating. Steve wondered briefly what it would take to wipe it off his face for a minute. He was sure there was something, but he wasn’t prepared to try any theories. That was a dangerous road to go down, and once he started, there would be no exits, no turning back, he would have to go on through to the end, and he wasn’t entirely sure what the destination would look like when they got there.  
  
So, instead, Steve applied his tried and true method of dealing with Tony: he ignored him. He brushed past him and went to the armoire where they kept a bunch of DVDs and started going through them.  
  
Tony came and hovered over him, nudging him with his foot. “Don’t be mad, Cap,” he said. “I really was kidding. Although why you turn your nose up at _The Godfather_ and yet have burned through three copies of _Die Hard_, I’ll never understand.”  
  
“It wasn’t three copies.”  
  
“Oh, I beg to differ. Do you want to see the credit card receipts? FRI, pull up the VISA account.”  
  
“That’s not necessary, FRIDAY, thank you,” Steve grumbled, then, “Thor broke the second one.”  
  
The smile was back. The all-exasperating one. “Oh, that’s right. When you two big, strong men started fighting over _Singin’ in the Rain_.”  
  
“We weren’t fighting over _Singin’ in the Rain_,” Steve explained with deadly patience. “We were fighting over Debbie Reynolds.”  
  
“Because she wasn’t, shall we say, buxom enough to be a dancer.”  
  
Steve stood up. “And I’ll tell you just like I told him--I worked with those girls for a long time. Debbie was perfect.”  
  
Tony threw himself down on the couch and lifted his feet onto the coffee table. “You don’t have to tell me, soldier. I believe you. But next time you two decide to get down to fisticuffs, let me know. I could sell out Madison Square Garden with that match-up. It’d be like Tyson versus Holyfield all over again. Although, hopefully with less ear-biting.” He shrugged. “Or more. It’d be good, either way.”  
  
Steve sat down next to him and pressed ‘play’ on the remote control. “Sometimes I think you deliberately try to confuse me,” he said.  
  
“I wouldn’t do that,” Tony said as the credits began to roll. “What are we watching?”  
  
“I don’t know. You got me worked up and I just grabbed. I think it’s Bruce’s.”  
  
“Great,” Tony sighed. “Chick-flick.”  
  
So, they watched a movie about three English girls whose father died and left them penniless and the only way they could improve their lives was by finding a rich husband. Steve wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with the message of the movie. All the women he had known and loved, from his mother to Peggy to Natasha, were too smart and tough to need a man to take care of them. He’d begun to drift off, his eyelids growing heavy, then suddenly he was awake again.  
  
Steve tapped Tony’s knee with the back of his hand. “Hey, Tony, look, it’s Hans Gruber. Tony--” He stopped. Tony was sound asleep beside him. His face, usually pinched with worry or alight with manic glee, had smoothed out and softened. His hair fell over his forehead. One hand was tossed lightly over his stomach, the other lay on the couch, palm up, clean, white, and somehow vulnerable.  
  
Steve turned the volume down, then sat back, uncertainty speeding up his heart. He should wake Tony up and send him to bed. FRIDAY could keep watch and let Steve know that he’d gotten to his room alright. There’d be no need to stand him up and put an arm around him and help him down the hall himself. No need to lay him back then kneel and untie his shoes and toss them into a dark corner. No need to slip him between cool sheets, and certainly no need to slip between them himself. The fact that every inch of him cried out for him to do all of those things did not make them necessary.  
  
His eyes were drawn back to that hand lying on the cushion. How could a hand that crafted such dangerous, wonderful things look so innocent and defenseless? Steve’s own hands began to shake, and he watched, mesmerized, as his finger reached out toward Tony’s. It touched the pads of each of Tony’s fingers in turn, then slipped into the curve of his palm and lightly traced the lines that crisscrossed the surface.  
  
Steve looked at Tony’s face, almost daring him to wake up, then bit his lip and settled his hand over Tony’s. His hand was larger and covered it almost completely. Heat bloomed in the pocket of space where their palms did not quite touch and existed there like a tiny sun. To Steve, it felt like it could warm a thousand galaxies on its own. Tony’s fingers twitched and came to rest against the outer edge of Steve’s hand, the middle fingers touching the bandage he’d applied earlier, the pinky and index finger touching Steve’s skin. It felt natural. It felt like they belonged there, like Tony’s hand had always been meant to hold his, like it had been made for no other purpose than to sit palm-to-palm and finger-to-finger with Steve’s.  
  
Steve sat that way with Tony’s hand in his, just taking it in, marking it, and over the years that followed, after the Sokovia Accords, after Berlin, after Bucky and Siberia, when he and the rest of the Rogues went on the run, he would sometimes think about the way Tony’s hand had felt in his. He would think about the tiny, brave heat that lived between their palms. He would think about it and wonder, if he could undo everything that had happened, just erase it all so he could feel that touch again for real, even for one moment, if he would do that.  
  
Of course, he would.  
  
Of course, he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I KNOW that Tony Stark would never say anything bad about Natasha. But, he was really jealous, and jealousy makes us do stupid things sometimes. And, like he said, he was talking more about Steve than Nat. That being said, thank you so much for coming this far with me! Part Two is on the way. It is set Post-Infinity War, so be prepared for a ton of drama, angst, fighting, and (finally!) kisses. You are all beautiful! Thank you!


End file.
